


The Leg-Work

by Anarchyinplasma



Series: Life and Times of a Risen [7]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23789509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchyinplasma/pseuds/Anarchyinplasma
Summary: Killing Gods and Devils of every stripe is all well and good, but guardians have other tasks, all special in their own, small ways.
Series: Life and Times of a Risen [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/643955
Kudos: 2





	The Leg-Work

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I've last posted anything for Arcturus, but I'm happy enough with how this one turned out. Just a little world-building of the less glamorous aspect of a Risen's life.
> 
> Recommended Listening: Simple Man - Hartman, Eric Martin - Hands on the Wheel

Arcturus has always thought that being a nightstalker is a game of double edged swords. Sure there's that recruitment talk he used to give to new recruits, the whole "this will make you miserable, cynical, and bloody depressed" chat; because in reality the thing Nightstalkers get to do most when they take up trans-planetary solo treks is just think.

He's thinking about a lot when he's crawling through ducts in the ruins of a freehold skyscraper, he's always been slightly claustrophobic, he finds the distraction of extra thoughts keeps him from making a mistake.

He thinks about the gun on his hip, recently given back to him by the gunsmith, his First Curse, already re-gaining the scars of his trade in skirmishes everywhere he goes. There's something comforting about the weight of his gun, Hawkmoon is comforting too, but in a different way, First Curse has been on his hip in one form or another for almost six hundred years now, as much as he trusts his lover's cannon, First Curse is as much his soul as his dusk bow.

The gun mostly hidden behind his cloak has its own story, rechristened Lumina fairly recently, he's still not a hundred percent sure what to make of the weirder things it's capable of. Blessings and curses are a tricky business after all, and he's not really qualified.

His thinking pauses as he kicks a vent through and emerges on the ninety seventh floor, massive glass windows stained with sand dominate the wall, and the walls are pock marked with bullet holes and laser scarring.

Arcturus knows that if he looks in the right place he'll find a hole in the floor spearing through fifty levels of the building, left there by a misfired celestial golden gun three years prior; a ghost of a smile crosses his face as Callahan scans this floor of the building and he starts thinking again, moving on autopilot.

He thinks about his dusk bow, wonders what it says about him that his "light" means he can spin the heart of a black hole out of his fingertips and fire it from a bow carved from creation's shadow. He wonders why -as a well placed kick breaks a supply room door off it's rusting hinges- he finds it so much harder to pull on the other elements. It's not difficult per sé, he's an accomplished Hunter, but it feels just a little bit wrong.

The void is always there no matter what classification he uses, a slow creeping cold in his veins, feeding him a rhythm that he never had to consciously think about to follow, no matter the situation, be it a firefight, or a quieter moment such as now, when he's sorting through boxes marked with Bray stamps for anything useful.

He thinks about where he's been as he pulls another box into his lap, flicking through data crystals for anything useful, thinks about every bullet he can remember firing, every time he's been shot, stabbed, burned, disintegrated, electrocuted, cut to pieces, etc. He thinks about strike teams and briefings, -an undamaged crystal catches his eye and he slips it into a pouch-, he thinks about where he's going, the bullets he'll fire, how he'll die and die again and again. How he wants to question everything but he's not a warlock, it's above his paygrade and he's a pragmatist after all.

He pulls his knife from his vambrace to do away with a particularly stubborn lock and remembers where it came from, the old trials of Osiris. Not worth dwelling on, he wanted to see what the fuss was, wasn't a fan of the atmosphere. Got a good blade from it though.

He sorts through every box of data crystals and office supplies and every other thing he can find on that floor of the freehold skyscraper he's in and moves on, it's mid day when he gets done and moves up to the roof. The scars of battle are even more evident up here, the control room he guts for electrical components is practically ankle deep in shell casings; constantly clinking against his feet while he's bent over the console, knife in the wiring, pulling out bundles of the stuff to be repurposed in the city. He pulls out a near pristine double screen once he’s finished with the rest of the console as a gift of sorts for Holliday, she's been wanting one.

Freehold is the last stop on his trek, he's been through Cabal canyon outposts, the wreckage of the Clovis Bray underground transport system, he's gutted miles of wire and LEDs and all sorts of guff from consoles and advertising boards and every other thing he could find, he's sent the advanced tech from the labs he'd found on ahead; he reckons it'll be junk, it usually is, but the warlocks and the scholars leave him alone if he gives them new toys to play with.

Once he's stripped the final room bare, he moves out to the landing platform. His ship is on an automated supply drop run with the previous load of components and it'll be a few hours at best, so he sits on the edge, helmet off with the gentle breeze in his hair, long rifle held loosely in his grasp as he thinks about life. Every so often he sweeps his perimeter through his scope, but it's as silent as his own empty grave for miles in every direction.

He gets a small campfire going against the cold Martian wind, he's not much of a gunslinger, but he can manage a few burning knives for some kindling, and then settles down on his watch.

He remembers tearing through here in the SRL, he's got a pretty good view of the old circuit from his perch. In his mind's eye he watches a blue sparrow with a green cloaked rider kicking up dust as it devours miles, the rev counter living on the red line. Another smile graces his face, genuine and unburdened by company.

He takes another long perimeter sweep with his long rifle, still quiet as a graveyard. Orbital tells him there's a Cabal battle group marching from the east, but he'll be long gone before they get anywhere close to his position.

He clicks his fingers a few times to get his Ghost's attention and Callahan materialises an old deck of playing cards in his hand. He removes them from the battered box and lays down a game of solitaire, then another, and another. Every so often he takes perimeter reading and checks on his latest movement intel from Orbital but there's nothing, and he doesn't expect there to be either.

He packs up his cards when his ship appears on the horizon, silhouetted against the faint setting sun. As it approaches he marks his mission statement as complete, signs off with a quick commlink to the city, and then scratches his usual "done and gutted with a fine tooth-comb" symbol into the nearby wall.

Then he shoves a few old and abandoned boxes of Cabal supplies off the landing deck to make space -and, if he's honest with himself, just because he can- and waits for Callahan to bring his ship in for a gentle landing.

He goes through his usual checklist, cannon, cannon, rifle, cards, helmet, ammo, unused supplies, ghost, then climbs aboard with his last parts shipment loaded up and sets course for the city.

"Take it slow on ascent" he murmurs to Callahan after he's finished with the manual preflights and the takeoff. 

He watches through the window as his gentle arc away from the Martian surface reveals more and more dusty red vista to gaze at. Lazily Arcturus flicks a few switches and with a few taps at his centre console he's updated Orbital with his own sensor data from takeoff as they reach high orbit. The next Hunter inbound on Freehold approach will probably appreciate it.

He left the fire burning for them, they're not long from entry and they'll be spending at least the night there before they can start their assignment -scrap plating if he remembers correctly, but it isn't his job to remember-, he leaves a "note" of sorts, scribbled unobtrusively in a dark spot on his tac data, "left the stove on for you, top of Fhold AX, enjoy your stay - A"

A few hours later he's pulling into the Tower’s main hanger and stretching his legs in his seat as he lets Callahan take care of landing.

He's quick about getting out of the Tower, stopping only to drop off his gift for Amanda before he's out into the city and back towards his home.

Forty minutes later he's finally comfortable, slumped against the counter in the kitchen of his city-side apartment waiting for the kettle to boil for his four month overdue cup of tea. Still thinking about anything his mind wanders to.

He thinks about the dark age, building the city up from a collection of wooden huts to the sprawling metropolis it is now, then the kettle clicks to tell him it’s boiled and he finally pours himself a nice cup of tea.


End file.
